An Understanding
by nanniships
Summary: Season 6 speculation for Baxley. After dancing around each other and their feelings for a year, it's going to take a catalyst to move them forward.
1. Chapter 1

The white cotton slipped smoothly between his fingers. As required, the gloves were pristine, without spill or split. They waved like a flag of surrender in his hands as he slowly drew them between his knuckles and stared at them, eyebrows knit in distaste and frustration, even while the corner of his mouth quirked wryly.

"I'm having me career backwards," he'd said once. But truly, his career wasn't moving backwards. It wasn't moving at all. It couldn't really be called a career. He was past fifty, serving as a footman under the leadership of two men, both of whom seemed to be in vigorous health and content to stay where they were.

Well, maybe Mr. Carson was entertaining thoughts of retirement. If the Granthams had been different sorts, more concerned with the image of things than the well being and happiness of loyal servants who had, over the years, become more than servants, the butler's determination to marry the housekeeper of many years would have resulted in two retirements. But he couldn't wish Mr. Carson gone for his own advancement…not when he considered who he'd likely be trading him for.

Now…that one. Mr. Barrow…

The underbutler was many years away from retirement. His scheming might get caught out eventually, but the years of near misses made Thomas Barrow appear to lead a charmed life. Bulletproof, in spite of the war injury he hid under his own glove.

Joseph Molesley grimaced as he gazed at the hated, white gloves that signified his status, and folded them with care, replacing them in his livery. It wouldn't do to get them stained; he'd have to look out another pair and listen to the blustering disapproval of Mr. Carson over his carelessness.

Service wasn't the only job in the world, but it seemed to be what he was made for. When he wasn't sulking over what might have been or smarting from a reprimand - and he seemed to get more than his fair share of those - he was skilled and efficient. He'd been a better valet than ever he was a footman. And he'd shown real promise as a butler. Maybe he wasn't destined to command a downstairs ship like Downton Abbey, but he'd had a future, reasonable ambitions.

Now he had only the blessed camaraderie of those who toiled beside him, steady but paltry pay, and tasks to fill his days. And if that had not been enough to keep him from actively seeking greener pastures, there was also Phyllis.

Miss Baxter, rather.

He shouldn't even call her by her Christian name in his head; there was too much of a chance that it might slip out through his lips. And he'd no right to be so familiar. They were friends and colleagues. Very good friends. But there was no…understanding between them. And he didn't know how to change that. Or if she'd even want to.

Footmen on the far side of fifty with no prospects shouldn't be thinking of understandings anyway. Not even when he'd look up and see those deep, brown eyes watching him with concern or friendliness or that…that something else he couldn't really identify, but when he saw it, it made him tend to drop things.

It was that something else that would show up in his dreams at night; the only time he could breathe her name without censure. Maybe it was just vain hopes, but there were times when he'd think maybe….maybe she might possibly feel the same way…

Not that there was anything he could do about it. He'd nothing to offer. It would have to be enough to sit next to her, smile back and laugh together, and surreptitiously glance at her lovely, busy hands, her slender neck, the cool lift of her eyebrow when she was amused, and her profile as she smiled and chatted while she worked…

He cleared his throat with a rough bark that caught the attention of a young maid sitting at the other end of the table. At her curious glance, he smiled weakly and stood, wondering if there was silver polishing to be caught up on, or some other monotonous chore that he could do with only half a mind while the other half daydreamed.

Daydreaming was all he could ever seem to manage.

He sighed and wandered from the servant's hall, unaware that the object of his thoughts had entered with an armful of cloth and watched his departure with disappointed eyes.

After all, it wouldn't do for Miss Baxter to call out to him and ask him to stay when they should both be focusing on their tasks. Never mind that it made the tedious time spent mending pass that much quicker when they could have a chat and she could see his face light up in excitement as he spoke.

She smoothed her skirt as she dropped into the chair in front of her sewing machine. The plain, black dress, traditional for her role in the household, may have looked and felt like armor, but it wrinkled terribly if she wasn't careful. The simple severity served the purpose of insuring that at no time did the servant outshine the mistress she tended to. And there was never any regret in her for the role she had accepted so gratefully. It had given her a second chance at a life out from under shame and disgrace, and was truly the best she could ever expect.

But there were times when she hoped in the secret places of her heart that she barely acknowledged for something more. She knew she was respected by most of her colleagues, and the ones that reserved their regard had good reason to. She was even liked; apparently she was a breath of fresh air compared to Her Ladyship's previous maids. Thomas - Mr. Barrow, rather - had urged her in the beginning to be cooperative and helpful in order to allay suspicion and build bridges that he had been burning for years. But she would have done so anyway. Even now, she didn't hold hard feelings against the manipulative underbutler. It wasn't in her to be deliberately unkind.

Her foot taped lightly on the treadle and she guided the hem of a skirt with consummate skill under the clacking needle. No one watching her bent industriously over her machine would suspect that she was counting her blessings. And they would most certainly attribute the bite of her lip to concentration rather than consternation at the fact that so many of the blessings seemed to evolve around Joseph.

Mr. Molesley, rather.

It wouldn't be out of place for her to refer to a footman by his given name, as she did with Andy. But since Joseph's hiring as a footman, an odd turn of patronage and force of habit granted him the more formal address. Frankly, no one, downstairs or up, would ever call Mr. Molesely Joseph. He was Mr. Molesley to everyone, and so had to be Mr. Molesley to her as well.

But that didn't stop her from thinking of him as Joseph. And hoping that, one day, she might be able to say his name - not as an accidental slip that would embarrass them both, but as a natural way of greeting him that would roll off of her tongue and cause him to smile.

She liked his smile. And she treasured every time she had made him forget himself enough to grin broadly or laugh, even when others were around. It made her think, just for a moment, that there might someday be an understanding between them.

But if he was thinking along the same lines, he was careful not to reveal it - not in any definitive way. Sometimes, their eyes would meet in the middle of a conversation, and there would be this brief silence, just waiting to be filled with something. But nothing ever filled it. And they'd both turn their eyes away awkwardly.

Odd, that she felt she could tell him anything except what was most important. One day, one of them would fill that silence. Maybe he'd stutter like he did when he was flustered. Or maybe she'd hold his gaze and find herself speaking in that low voice she used when foiling the multitude of eavesdroppers that tended to grow in the fertile ground of downstairs.

Miss Baxter didn't know. And she wasn't aware that she was smiling to herself as she sewed, or that the object of her thoughts was standing in the corridor, his search for clean polishing cloths brought to an abrupt halt as the sight of her smile gave him new fodder for his daydreams and made his heart stutter as badly as ever his words did.

And neither knew that the other was wishing just as fervently for something…anything…that might bring them to an understanding.

Mr. Carson tried to maintain a neutral expression, but was unable to hide his exasperation at the requirements he was laying out for the staff at their dinner that evening to meet the needs of the soon to be expected guests. Circumstances had changed very much, and even house parties weren't actual house parties.

"Blimey," Mr. Barrow drawled, enjoying the sight of Mr. Carson's agitation, "It's like they're running a training scheme for the nobility."

"It's to Downton's credit that others wishing their estates to run as well and as profitably are seeking out the advice and instruction of His Lordship," Mr. Carson proclaimed irritably, unconsciously sticking out his chest.

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes discretely. "I suspect it's Lady Mary's expertise they've come to seek, Mr. Carson, as she's taken on so much of the Estate Manager's roll. They'll likely shadow her around for a few days and go back to their own estates none the wiser."

Mr. Carson's response was an uncomfortable huff. Mr. Molesley met Miss Baxter's eyes and they hid their grins.

"As it is unlikely that either Lord Edwards or Sir Gregory are traveling with a valet, you will see to them if required, Mr. Barrow."

"I'm afraid I might not be available, Mr. Carson," Mr. Barrow replied with a smirk. "Or have you forgotten that I'm to be at the London house all next week to deal with the tradesmen doing the repairs to the ballroom floor?"

"That's next week?" Mr. Carson demanded, turing to stare at Mrs. Hughes.

"It is," she replied, taking an unconcerned sip of her tea. "It was moved up two weeks, as the new flooring arrived earlier than expected and Mr. Woodbury is anxious to get started on it." She looked down the table with a little smile tugging the corner of her lips. "But I'm certain that Mr. Molesley could step up to the task, if a valet is needed."

Mr. Molesley met Mr. Carson's stare with a startled look. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Miss Baxter beaming happily at him. Without thinking, he sat up straighter in his seat and nodded confidently to Mr. Carson.

The wordless conversation that ensued between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes was decisively ended by the latter's raised eyebrow and stern look over the rim of her cup.

"Well, that's settled, then. Mr. Molesley will stand in as valet if needed." The chairs scraped the floor as everyone stood in response to Mr. Carson's rise and departure. The staff sat down and resumed eating while conversation about the expected guests flew up and down the table.

"That's wonderful…Mr. Molesley," Miss Baxter said excitedly, catching herself before she could call him Joseph.

"Well, I hope I haven't lost me touch," he replied modestly. "It'll be good to take up valeting again, even just for a little while."

"I'm sure there isn't anyone better for the job," she replied firmly, relishing the smile that he gave at her praise.

Their eyes locked, but only for a moment. Then the silence was filled with the sound of scraping chairs and chatter of servants finishing up their day.


	2. Chapter 2

He was in his element.

The stiff bristles of the clothing brush rasped briskly on the back of Lord Edwards as the younger man rambled cheerfully about the day he'd just spent learning about the proper balance between grain crops. Mr. Molesley nodded and made affirming noises in all the right places as he snuck glances in the mirror to ensure that His Lordship's tie was straight, as the fellow had shown a tendency to fuss with it when he was excited.

"Will I do, Molesley?" he asked cheerfully when Mr. Molesley stepped back to run critical eye over His Lordship's shoes.

"I should think so, M'Lord."

Lord Edwards examined himself in the mirror and nodded. Mr. Molesley stepped back at attention, ready to attend to the remnants of His Lordship's day wardrobe. His fingers were already itching to begin scrubbing up the shoes he'd worn out to the fields.

"I must say," Lord Edwards said as he turned from admiring his reflection, "It's been quite some time since I've looked this put together."

Mr. Molesley nodded graciously and with some relief. It wasn't that he was concerned that he'd lost his skills… more like he felt it had been some time since he'd actually used them.

As Lord Edwards took his leave, Mr. Molesley began gathering up clothing and shoes, ready to run them downstairs and begin on them before he had to re-assume his footman duties at dinner. Mr. Carson had been understanding about releasing him from most of his footman responsibilities, but serve in the Dining Room with only one footman and no underbutler, he would not.

Puffing slightly, he emerged at the bottom of the stairs to catch a glimpse of Miss Baxter disappearing into the Boot Room. Hesitating only a moment, he decided that His Lordship's shoes were the place to begin.

Miss Baxter looked up as he rushed into the Boot Room and smiled at him.

"How did it go, Mr. Molesley?"

"Well, I think," he replied with an answering smile.

"I'm not surprised. I knew you'd do well."

"How do y'know? You never knew me as a valet."

"People talk, Mr. Molesley," she teased, watching him out of the corner of her eye to catch the flush rising on his neck.

"They…they do?" he stammered nervously.

Miss Baxter kept her gaze on the shoes she was cleaning, afraid that if she looked into his anxious eyes she'd either laugh, which would hurt his feelings, or reach for his hand to reassure him which wouldn't be entirely proper.

"Yes, they do," she replied, smiling at the shoes. "And they say you were valet to Mr. Matthew Crawley and still would be, if he hadn't…."

"Yes," he said sadly as she trailed off. The only sound in the Boot Room was the swish of the cloth on Lady Grantham's shoes and the rasp of the brush on Lord Edwards'.

"I imagine you must miss being a valet," she said, so softly he could barely hear her.

"I thought I was well suited for it…better than I am for being a footman."

Miss Baxter stole a glance over at him as he concentrated on the little seams of Lord Edwards' shoes. His eyes flickered over at her and back to the shoes when he saw her looking thoughtfully at him.

"Perhaps you will be again," she finally said, knowing full well it was unlikely to happen at Downton, and trying to inject a note of enthusiasm for the prospect into her voice.

He stopped his scrubbing and watched her as she gathered up her cleaning cloths and carefully picked up Her Ladyship's shoes. Wondering at her tone, he swallowed the sudden urge to assure her that such a thing was very unlikely.

And why should he think she needed his reassurance anyway?

With a nod and a smile, Miss Baxter slipped out of the boot room, leaving Mr. Molesley wishing he'd thought of something to say to prolong their conversation, just a little more.

With less enthusiasm and care, he bent his head to his task of conquering the fields and farms that remained on His Lordship's shoes, barely finishing before the gong.

* * *

Sir Gregory declined an after-dinner cigar with an apologetic smile, muttering something about indigestion before lapsing back into the silence that had characterized his whole visit. Lord Edwards received his cigar with enough enthusiasm for them both, however, making Lord Grantham hide a sudden grin. Mr. Carson, who had remained behind to serve the gentlemen after dinner, raised an eyebrow slightly.

"This has really been a marvelous visit, Lord Grantham," Edwards enthused. "I've got quite a bit of practical knowledge to take back to my estate, and your hospitality is everything it is rumored to be."

Lord Grantham accepted the compliment graciously.

"In fact," Lord Edwards continued, suddenly sounding nervous, "I wonder if I might impose on your hospitality a bit further and ask a rather, um awkward question?"

"I'm intrigued, Lord Edwards. What sort of question?"

"It's about one of your staff…"

Lord Grantham exchanged a quick look with Mr. Carson, who stood even straighter, if that were possible, assuring His Lordship with his glance that nothing untoward had reached _his_ ears.

"Go on," Lord Grantham encouraged.

"That chap you've got valeting for me…Molesley. He's been taking excellent care of me…"

Carson relaxed slightly across his shoulders.

"And, well…I've been wondering if you would object if I offered him a position in my household?" At Lord Grantham's surprised face, he hastened to add, "Of course, if you can't spare him, I'd completely understand…"

"This is somewhat unexpected, I must say," Lord Grantham replied, glancing over at Carson, who's expression reflected that it was most unexpected for him as well.

"I wouldn't make him an offer without your permission, of course," Lord Edwards assured him.

"Carson? What do you think?" Lord Grantham asked. "Can we do without Mr. Molesley?"

"Mr. Molesley is a trained valet, M'Lord," Carson responded neutrally. "And I'm sure he would be most….gratified by the offer. On the whole, he is an adequate footman and we should be sorry to lose him. I would not wish to stand in the way of his…career, however—"

"Splendid!" Lord Edwards interrupted, not giving Mr. Carson an opportunity to damn Mr. Molesley with faint praise any further. "Have I your approval to offer him a position, Lord Grantham?"

"I don't see why not," Lord Grantham replied with a bemused shrug.

As the gentlemen finished their cigars and brandy and joined the ladies in the drawing room, Mr. Carson excused Mr. Molelsey to tend to his valeting duties, giving him a searching, somewhat suspicious look.

Mr. Molesley blinked in confusion, and wondered what he'd done to merit Mr. Carson's glare. He completely missed the indulgent look thrown at him by His Lordship, who was in quiet conversation with Lady Grantham on the settee.

Miss Baxter watched him with surprise as he wandered past the servant's hall without so much as a second glance and his usual smile in her direction, preoccupied with Mr. Carson's seeming displeasure with him and the work ahead to ready Lord Edwards' clothing. After hesitating for a moment, she slipped out after him, finding him muttering to himself as he gathered all the pieces of His Lordship's wardrobe.

"Is something the matter, Mr. Molesley?" she asked.

He startled at her voice and fumbled a waist coat, nearly dropping it.

"I'm not sure," he said with a watery smile. "I seem to have gotten on the wrong side of Mr. Carson…"

Miss Baxter raised an amused eyebrow and Mr. Molesley responded with an eyeroll.

"But I have no idea what I could have done this time. Or left undone." He looked down at the clothing in his arms and muttered: "Perhaps Lord Edwards isn't pleased with me."

"I doubt that," Miss Baxter said firmly. "You said things had been going very well. What could make him go off of you in the space of a dinner?"

Mr. Molesley shrugged and looked at her anxiously.

"I know that he'll be gone in a few days, and I'll be back to footman duties as normal, but I'd like to know my….my skills haven't gone off."

"I'm sure they haven't," she reassured him. She hated it when he doubted himself so. Without thinking, she touched his arm reassuringly, distracting him immediately from his armful of Lord Edwards' things.

"Well, I'll find out soon enough," he sighed, wishing he could drop everything he was holding and place his hand on top of hers.

She gave his arm a little squeeze and stepped back to allow him to move out of the boot room with his burden. Her eyes followed him with concern as he trudged towards the stairs, intent on making a good showing and having everything at the ready for His Lordship.

* * *

Mr. Molesley knew he must look utterly undignified - standing as he was in the middle of the bedroom with His Lordship's cravat hanging limply from one hand and his mouth wide open. He managed to shut his mouth at Lord Edwards' slightly amused expression, but couldn't muster up a response to his question.

"I take it I've surprised you, Molesley?"

"You have, M'Lord," he managed to croak out. "I certainly wasn't expecting…this."

"Well? What do you say?"

"I…I…I'm most _grateful_ and…and…humbled by your offer, M'Lord—"

"We seem to rub along well together," His Lordship went on as if Mr. Molesley hadn't replied at all. "And I could certainly use a valet, as I'm sure you've noticed. My last man wasn't quite up to snuff…"

As His Lordship prattled on cheerfully, Mr. Molesley handed him his dressing gown and busied himself with collecting the scattered remnants of his evening wear. But the familiar actions didn't seem to help him concentrate at all. It wasn't until His Lordship had requested a response from him twice that his brain screamed at him to say something.

"I…hardly know what to say, M'Lord," he replied. "It's a bit of a…well…"

"Of course! Of course!" His Lordship interjected. "It's a big decision, what? You need some time, I'd imagine."

"Yes, M'Lord," he answered eagerly. "To weigh in all the…um, factors of changing positions."

"I'll be around another two days. Could you let me know before I leave?"

"I'm certain I can let you know by then, M'Lord," he replied with a weak smile. "Will there be anything else?"

"No, I think we're all set here," he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. Busy day tomorrow, you know. Good night, Molesley."

Mr. Molesley bowed his head respectfully and backed out of the room with his arms full of clothing. As the heavy door shut behind him, he leaned against it for a moment, staring blankly down the corridor, as his mind tried to make heads or tails of what he'd just heard. But only one thought charged madly through his mind.

 _I'd have to leave Downton._

* * *

Miss Baxter lingered alone in the Servant's Hall, mending things that didn't really need to be mended, waiting for Mr. Molesley to come down. She sighed heavily as she realized she'd gotten to the point where she wasn't even pretending to herself that she was staying up to work, and her eyes flew to the doorway every time she heard footsteps.

When Mr. Molesley's shocked face appeared in the doorway, she stood up, dropping the skirt she was fiddling with onto the table without a second thought.

"Joseph? What's wrong?" she demanded in a low voice.

Some part of his mind flipped over in wonder and joy that she'd used his Christian name in her concern. But he was in no fit state to contemplate that fact.

"Um…it's…well…" He took a deep breath and came over to the table to drop His Lordship's clothes. "I have to see Mr. Carson."

"Has something happened? Please…tell me."

"Something has happened, yes," he confirmed, "and I think I should speak to Mr. Carson."

"I'll take care of these for you, then" she said, trying not to show on her face that her heart had dropped into her stomach.

"Thank you." He stared at her a moment, then swallowed hard. "I'll just be a few moments."

She began gathering the clothes as she watched him walk unsteadily towards Mr. Carson's door, fighting the sudden urge to bury her face in them and cry.

 **A/N: Very transitional chapter, I know. Stick around for one more.**


End file.
